Two Worlds Apart
by Minerva McTabby
Summary: Tom Riddle: abilities, choices, and the start of a journey. Chapter One Tom gets his Hogwarts letter, and Albus Dumbledore takes him to Diagon Alley.


Disclaimer: Based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. Title is from the lyrics of _Under the Gun_ by The Sisters of Mercy. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

So far, this is gen and PG-13 at most; it's heading for slash, het, R.  
Notes: First chapter of a four-chapter WiP. It's consistent with a longer fic called _Two Worlds and In Between_ (the story of Tom's Marvolo grandfather), but there's no need to read that fic for this one to make sense. 

**Two Worlds Apart**  


He found his power when he was seven years old. 

There was injustice even in this, he would think much later, after years of piecing together his own story crumb by crumb. Not the first injustice in his life, nor the last, but still so monstrously unfair: finding his power not amidst luxury, not in any grand castle or manor of the wizarding world, not under the protection of anyone who could guide him in its use - but all alone in a Muggle orphanage. 

Always alone. Tall for his age, clever and well-spoken, ambitious even then. Quick-tempered and wary, yet always ready with a smile, a promise, or a lie to smooth his path through the world he was only beginning to understand. A world that promised no softness or ease, not ever - not for the likes of him. 

He had always hoped there might be something more, somewhere out there. 

After the age of seven, even in his ignorance, he _knew_ there was more - for he could feel it. "It" was the power that invaded his dreams, took control of his voice, flowed from his hands, tore through the pinched drudgery of his days. "It" was the knife-cut that sealed itself instantly, and the bruise that simply vanished. "It" was an order suddenly given and just as suddenly obeyed by bigger and older boys. "It" was a rush of anger and somebody else's cry of pain. "It" was the way his plate never seemed to empty until he was no longer hungry. "It" was a hissing in the dark, and a promise of brightness, and his secret, growing certainty. 

And finally, four years later, "it" was an owl bearing a letter. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

By a stroke of luck the other boys had gone down to breakfast early, so nobody watched him gape at the owl as it glided through the window or sink down on his bed with the envelope in his hands. 

_Mr. T.M. Riddle, Starwater Home for Boys, Langley Bottom, Wiltshire._

In his confusion, the first thing he sought in the letter was some hint of what that "M." might stand for. 

_Dear Mr. Riddle, we are pleased to inform you..._

Some elaborate joke, perhaps? He couldn't imagine who might go to so much trouble for him; there was even a coat of arms on the letter's seal. He ran his thumb over its tiny snake, reading the letter again. 

_School of Witchcraft and Wizardry..._

"Riddle!" One of the younger boys, calling from the lower landing. "You're wanted - her office, right now!" 

The letter lay in his pocket as he checked his fingernails for dirt, smoothed down his hair, and knocked on Mrs. Preston's door. 

"And here's the boy himself - Tom Riddle, sir - " 

Someone with the most extraordinary auburn beard rose from a chair to peer down at him from a great height. Tom only had time to note a fine suit and curious half-moon glasses - then the man's eyes met his and he was caught, struck dumb as "it" surged through him more fiercely than ever before. That calm blue gaze held him as if this man knew everything about him, right down to his dreams: those dreams of flying, and shadow-crowds that followed where he led or fell lifeless when he raised his hand... 

"Say how d'you do to the gentleman - this is Mr. Dumbledore from Hogwarts School, and what a surprise it's all been, bless me!" 

"Indeed, you are a surprise, Tom," said the tall man, smiling slightly. "A very great surprise." 

Tom found he could move again, at least enough to shake the hand extended to him. He murmured the required greeting, adding the required smile for Mrs. Preston: the smile of a happy, grateful orphan, with exactly the right measure of deference. He'd known for some time that as long as you showed people what they wanted to see, they would generally let you do as you pleased; and now he did it without really noticing her at all, thinking only of the letter and the man in front of him. 

_School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

She turned away to rummage through a filing-cabinet. "You're going away to school! Isn't that nice? And to think you've been enrolled there ever since you were born, fancy! Oh, Mr. Dumbledore, here it is, you'll see it's the right boy - " 

"No doubt of that." The pale blue eyes swept over Tom again as the man took the slim file and spread it open on the desk. "I'm obliged to you, of course, Mrs. Preston - but there can be no question that he is Julia Marvolo's son." 

And so he heard his third name for the first time, spoken softly by the deep, powerful voice he would come to hate beyond all others. 

A moment later - still tasting the syllables that called to him, caught at him like thorns - he saw it written down, when the man nodded permission for him to look at the file. There, on the record of his birth: _Tom Marvolo Riddle_. On the same page, signed in a bold slanting script: _Julia Marvolo_. And her name typed out on another piece of paper, dated only days after the first. 

"Eleven years..." The man had bowed his head. "And we never knew." One long finger slowly traced the curving _J_ and _M_ of the signature. 

"Run and get your cap, Tom," said Mrs. Preston. "Mr. Dumbledore's taking you out for the day! Isn't that a lovely treat for you, now?" 

The thousand questions in his mind, all fighting for release, made chaos of the next few minutes. He heard some talk of school-books and uniforms and trains, saw the stranger bowing over Mrs. Preston's hand; there was a promise to bring him back in time for tea; and then the two of them were out on the street, the orphanage door closing behind them. 

"Yes, it's all true!" The answer came before Tom could speak, and the man only arched an eyebrow at his astonishment. "All real - I'm a wizard and so are you, and you'll be going to school to learn magic. Your other questions will have to wait. Come along." And he strode off so fast that Tom had to run to keep up. 

Neither did he have time to ask about trains or anything else when they turned into an alley near the orphanage, because the man produced a wand - a _wand!_ - from his sleeve and touched it to a rusty old can, then placed the can in Tom's hands... and the world split apart into fragments as something sank an eager claw into his stomach and pulled him far away. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

He landed hard, stumbling to his knees before a rough wooden door; almost at once there was a popping noise nearby, and a strong hand drew him to his feet. When he looked around the alley was gone, replaced by a bustling city street. 

_Magic!_ This was "it" - real, overwhelmingly real - and if he could do this, then what else - 

"And here we are in London. Acid drop?" 

He looked up to see the man holding out a small tin. 

"Most refreshing after a long journey! Go ahead, they're quite harmless, no spells at all - " 

But Tom _wanted_ spells. The common tin of acid drops suddenly soured his mood, banished the wonder, leaving him thinking of every crude remark he'd ever heard about taking boiled lollies from strange men - mixed with shadowy memories of Snow White and poisoned apples. 

He quietly pocketed the sweet as the man stepped forward to open the door. 

It was a pub, dark and quiet, with few people there so early in the day; yet those few were wearing the oddest clothes, making Tom feel immediately out of place in his shirt, cap, and short trousers. Startled by a flash of color at his side, he turned to find that the fine grey suit had vanished: his tall companion wore long robes embroidered all over with strange patterns in purple and red, and a sweeping sky-blue cloak. His pointed hat brushed the pub's low ceiling. 

"When in Rome..." he said absently, looking past Tom to raise a hand to the barman. "Come along now, let's get you some breakfast. Mind your robes." 

Only then did Tom realise that his own clothes were hidden under plain black robes falling to his boots. He put a hand to his head; the cap had become a pointed hat. 

Just an hour ago, he had woken to the start of another ordinary day. It happened to be his birthday, but such things were never noticed at the orphanage. 

Now, within moments, he found himself sitting down to a large plate of bacon and eggs with a real wizard - a wizard who calmly poured himself a cup of tea, straightened his hat, and returned Tom's stare with one of his own. 

"Very well, then. Ask away." 

"Who _are_ you?" He blurted out the words without thinking how they sounded; flustered, he tried to add something that wouldn't seem rude - after all, he needed to make this man approve of him - 

But the man didn't seem offended, only amused. 

"You may call me Professor Dumbledore. And I am indeed from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where I teach Transfiguration - that's the art of turning one object into another, like so - " Two casual sweeps of his wand changed a plate of toast into a white rabbit and back again. He gave Tom another of those piercing looks, and his lips twitched. "I expect you'll do quite well in my classes. Next question?" 

"You knew my mother? And she was a - " 

"A witch, yes. And I did know her." 

"And - my father...?" 

"No. She left us, you see, several years before you were born..." Professor Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "No, I'm afraid I can't even say whether your father was wizard or Muggle - that's a word for people without magic - and the name 'Riddle' is unfamiliar to me. Your mother told us nothing." 

Disappointed, Tom reached for a piece of toast that appeared none the worse for its brief transformation. Then something else came to him. "What about her family? Are there - do I - " He might have cousins, uncles, grandparents: all wizards! The thought made him dizzy. 

Professor Dumbledore was silent for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. "No. Julia was - the last of them, and thus free to do as she wished, accountable to none. She was heiress to three great families, the last - " 

"So am I rich, then?" 

"What an admirably forthright question! Alas, no. Or rather - your legacy from your mother's line is likely to be very great, but one of skill rather than worldly goods. Listen, now, and I'll tell you how it was." 

Fighting down another wave of disappointment, Tom listened. 

"I remember your mother at the age of five-and-twenty. A powerful witch, and a most determined young lady - one who made her choices and acted on them, regardless of the cost. Tom..." Professor Dumbledore paused, stroking his long beard. "You will come to understand that magic can be used to create, or to destroy. As I said, Julia was the last heiress of three families. And when she set her mind to destruction, there soon remained very little trace that any of those families had ever walked this earth." 

There was something terribly important here, almost within his grasp. Tom listened and listened. 

"Then she left the wizarding world. Now, there are many spells for concealing things or people... The whole world of magic is hidden from Muggles. Hogwarts itself is hidden. Your mother did not wish to be found - and she had the skill to make that true. Even in the doorway of her own death, it seems she was able to work a concealment charm on you and make it hold for eleven years." 

The toast felt very dry in his mouth. He swallowed. "So... how did you find me?" 

Professor Dumbledore smiled. "Some enchantments never change - like the Quill that records the birth of every witch and wizard. Their names become visible when the time comes to summon them to learn. So I saw your name and knew it, and I followed the owl this very morning." 

"How can you follow an owl?" 

"On a broomstick, of course." 

That really did sound like a joke, but Professor Dumbledore's expression was entirely serious now. He leaned forward slightly, looking straight at Tom. 

"One thing I must advise you, though I regret it: do not use your middle name when you come to school. When you grow up, you may perhaps wish to be known by that name - or you may not. You will understand why, in due course." 

Tom nodded politely. Those who were forced to take care of their own upbringing had to know how to nod politely and listen to any available advice; but the decision on whether to follow the advice remained their own. 

He was newly turned eleven, an orphan, a nobody. Just a boy with dreams he couldn't explain, and the will to power, and a name. Three names, from this day. 

Only he would decide what to do with those names. 

Professor Dumbledore talked on, not waiting for questions this time, so Tom finished his breakfast while hearing about the train he would have to catch on the first of September. He thought of his few coins under a floorboard at the orphanage, and what he might do to raise the fare to Scotland; one way or another, he meant to be on that train. 

"All done? Well, shall we move on? You'll be wanting your wand, and a few books - " 

Tom's hand went to the letter. He said what had to be said, speaking rapidly, trying not to redden. "I don't have any money, sir." 

"You'll not need it. The School will provide your supplies, of course, along with the other necessities." 

He should have known all this was too good to be true. Now he didn't bother to hide his disbelief. Going away to school without paying a penny - no. This was another kind of orphanage, or... what might they want of him in return? 

"A few more answers, then, before we go." Professor Dumbledore said a word to a man who had come to remove the empty plate, then gave Tom another smile and settled back in his chair. 

By the time the man returned with two goblets full of some yellowish drink, Tom felt no less confused. The story he was hearing now seemed to have nothing to do with the question of who would pay for his school-books. Instead, he learned that Hogwarts School was a thousand years old and had been founded by four people with funny long names; the first three slipped past him, but he caught at the last, repeating it to himself: _Sly-ther-in_, strange and cold and sweet on his tongue as the first taste of pumpkin juice. 

"It was a time of turmoil and change for magical folk, you see, so the Founders - who were the greatest of their age - decided that for the wizarding world's safety and the good of the children, no young wizard or witch should be allowed to go untutored in the arts of power. And to their goal the four of them pledged their skills and their lives..." 

Tom found his eyes drawn to that wand on the table, lying there like such an ordinary thing by Professor Dumbledore's left hand. 

"I am giving you an answer, I promise." A sharp glance brought his drifting attention back to the story. "So the Founders built the School and bound their power in it to make it strong, and then they secured its future - or three of them did so, for the fourth disagreed with his colleagues on that point and some others I'll not mention now... No matter, three were enough. These three renounced their lines and fortunes, vowing that they would have no heirs of the body - instead, that the School would be their legacy and their wealth the means to ensure that all children with magical gifts should be educated. In perpetuity - that means forever, Tom. That means you." 

Someone from a thousand years ago paying for his schooling? He'd never heard of such a thing; but he wanted to believe it, very much. All of it, from the pointed hat on his head to the wand on the table, and the way he had just travelled a hundred miles in an instant: all his for the taking, if this were true. 

"So if a child's family is very poor, and cannot pay - or if they have a distaste for magic, so to speak, and will not pay - or if a child has no parents... None of that is a barrier." Professor Dumbledore nodded, his eyes gleaming in the pub's dim light. "Thank the Founders, young man. Three of them, at least. Now let's go find you a wand!" 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

It turned out to be a fairly long walk, and Tom was glad of it as he followed the blue cloak along a twisting cobbled street beyond the pub, for he saw magic _everywhere_. Saw it, heard it, smelled it - and some of it didn't smell all that nice, but all of it delighted him. He decided not to worry any more about who was paying for what, since one way or another, here he was, and he already couldn't imagine turning around and leaving. Not until he knew - oh, one day he _would_ know why anyone wanted to buy bat spleens, and how a person could just disappear like that, and why the round green things in that man's basket were _moving_, and what Floo powder might be... 

One day he'd know it all, he promised himself. One day he'd be able to go into any shop here and buy whatever he pleased. And one day he'd be walking down this street and everyone would know who he was. 

Nobody spared him a second glance now, but plenty of people seemed to know Professor Dumbledore; they smiled, waved, called out greetings to him, and he would raise a hand in reply, but didn't stop - not even when they suddenly found themselves up to their knees in white butterflies. A plump young woman in yellow robes ran up to them, out of breath. 

"Ooh, Master Dumbledore, I'm ever so sorry - they _will_ keep getting away! Do excuse me - " 

"My dear Miss Sprout, please think nothing of it! A pleasure to see you again." 

Blushing, the woman pulled out her wand and did something to make the whole cloud of butterflies stream into a small box. Then she closed the lid firmly and hurried off, still muttering apologies. 

The street had broadened now; smaller streets branched from it on each side, and Tom kept trying to look into each one, wondering what else might be there. 

"Albus! I say, Albus!" 

At that greeting, Professor Dumbledore did stop. The high-pitched voice came from the shortest man Tom had ever seen; the stack of books hovering beside him in a shop doorway almost matched his height. 

"Oh, well met! You simply _must_ see this - " The little man pulled a book from the pile and waved it gleefully. "A true gem, a treasure - exquisite volume - you'll not believe your eyes, indeed - " 

Tom could guess that Professor Dumbledore would take a dim view of him wandering off by himself... yet there was such an enticing shadowy laneway quite close to where the two men stood exclaiming over a book, and he couldn't resist going as far as the corner and peering around it. 

He found himself face to face with a witch. 

She _looked_ like a witch, far more so than any of the women he'd seen there until now. So perfectly ugly: grimy skin shriveled like a prune around a long, lumpy nose, dirty-white hair straggling down past her stringy neck. She even had a wart on her chin, like all witches in picture-books, and her back curved in a hump that made her no taller than Tom. All she needed was a black cat and a broomstick. 

For a long moment the witch didn't move, ancient eyes intent on his face as he stared back, fascinated. Then her mouth wrinkled further in a grin that revealed only two teeth. 

"Young master... pretty young master! Would you change your luck? See what I have for you!" One bony hand clutched at his sleeve, drawing him closer; the other held up a basket. "Charms and wards and talismans - I have them all, come see, come buy!" 

Still curious, he took a step forward into her scent of violets and decay; but the basket held no wonders, only some grubby ribbons and scraps of lace. 

The wheedling, sing-song voice went on and on. "Fair fortune be yours, health and wealth and long life, wear this around your lovely neck and never shed another tear, come now, young master, come buy - ah, such a handsome face was never meant for curses! Come, two Sickles is all I ask - " 

"Give over, you daft old bat! Still peddling that rubbish?" This came from a group of men slouching against a nearby wall. 

The witch shifted from fawning to furious in an instant. "Louts! Mangy Squibs! What do you know of it, scurvy rabble, damn you - " 

She seemed to forget all about Tom, even dropping her basket as she hobbled towards the men, swearing and shaking her fists. Their voices rose in further jeers, mingled with the screeching of the witch. 

"Well, have you seen enough?" 

Tom half-expected a scolding, but Professor Dumbledore only beckoned to him and turned back to the main street. 

"Clear off, you stinking mouldy hag!" 

"Common filth, how dare you! I'll have you know I lay with Lord Marius Marvolo himself in his prime - Mock me, would you? Vile, ignorant - Aaahh!" 

He spun around at the name, but the witch said no more; she had started tearing at her robes, abandoning words for a keening wail that rose higher and higher above the men's laughter. Her hat fell off, and tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks. 

And then Professor Dumbledore was moving past him towards the group of them. Whatever he said to the men made them shuffle off down the laneway. Then he turned to the howling witch, touched his wand to her forehead, and softly spoke one word: "_Obliviate_." 

She stood motionless, an odd, dreamy smile on her face, as he picked up her hat and basket and returned them to her; then she wandered away, quite silently, still smiling. 

"She'll forget, for a while." Professor Dumbledore looked down, his face grave. "It's an imperfect world you're walking into, Tom. Does it seem a shining place, full of marvelous things? It is that, yet it's scarred as well, and flawed as any other world, and sometimes it seems there's always a battle being fought, or looming just ahead... You'll find all that, as well as the wonders. Have courage - and compassion for the ones damaged in those battles, no matter who they are." 

But how did that smelly old witch know one of his names? Tom badly wanted to ask, but Professor Dumbledore was already walking away, and he hurried to follow. 

Erasing memory with a word... The power of it thrilled him. Now he wanted a wand more than ever. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

A bell jingled loudly. Tom couldn't see anything past Professor Dumbledore, who had paused on the threshold of the dim little shop. 

"Albus!" It was a man's voice, soft and amused. "I knew you couldn't keep away once you heard they were done, but I must confess I hadn't expected to see you _quite_ so promptly - " 

"I was flying south when your owl found me - " 

"Come in, come in! I'll make us some tea, and you can take a good look at them - " 

"Ah, but I can't stay, I'm afraid! A pressing matter - " 

"More pressing than my newest wands? You insult me. Be off with you, then!" 

Professor Dumbledore laughed. "I'll stop by this evening to admire your skill, with a bottle of firewhiskey and Fawkes as well... But now the pressing matter is right behind me, requiring your aid. Judge for yourself." With that, he stepped aside to leave Tom alone in the doorway. 

Before him stood a dapper, middle-aged wizard with lace at his neck and wrists and a wand stuck behind one ear. 

"Well, my hat's off to you, Albus," he murmured, not taking his curious silvery eyes from Tom. "You've left me truly speechless this time." 

Professor Dumbledore doffed his own hat and sketched a bow. "Philokrates Ollivander, permit me to present Tom Riddle, who received his letter this morning. Muggle-bred - so do try not to terrify him over-much, there's a good chap." 

All the same, Mr. Ollivander's stare was making Tom uncomfortable. He turned away to look around the shop, seeing nothing but shelves packed with countless small boxes. 

"Can I pick any wand I want?" he whispered to Professor Dumbledore. 

"Muggle-bred! I _see_." Mr. Ollivander made a noise halfway between a snort and a cough. His gaze became stern. "You'll do nothing of the kind, young man. My wands are a good deal wiser than you are, as I always say - it's no earthly use setting your heart on ash or birch, for instance, if you're chosen by cedar! You'll take the cedar with proper respect and you'll use it." 

"The wand chooses the wizard, Tom," said Professor Dumbledore quietly. 

He didn't like being made to feel stupid, yet he couldn't understand a word of this. How did a piece of wood choose anyone? 

With another lightning change of mood, Mr. Ollivander smiled broadly, rubbing his hands together. "To business, then!" He took a tape measure from his robes, then looked at Tom again and tossed it aside. "Absurd! Those measurements haven't changed in a thousand years, save for the Lady Julia herself, and she never walked through my door, so..." 

Still muttering, the wand-maker started pacing briskly around his shelves, pulling out box after box, apparently at random; then he stopped suddenly in front of Tom and pressed a wand into his right hand. "Go on, boy, wave it! Fine wand, that one - mahogany, eleven inches, dragon heartstring core - " 

"Philokrates..." Professor Dumbledore, watching from a corner of the shop, sounded uneasy. 

"Merely starting with the obvious. Calm yourself, Albus - it's not choosing him, that's plain as can be!" 

Before Tom had time to savor the delight of holding a real magic wand at last, it was plucked from his grasp and replaced by another. 

"Now try this one! Ebony and dragon heartstring. Twelve-and-a-half inches. Excellent for - _Defence_ Against the Dark Arts, of course..." 

"Philokrates!" 

Mr. Ollivander only chuckled, producing a third wand. "Now this! Elder-wood and dragon heartstring, nine-and-a-quarter inches, very versatile - " 

Professor Dumbledore stalked off to a different corner, his cloak billowing around him. "I might be discourteous enough to hex you in your own shop, old friend..." 

"And the wind might change, and your face might keep that expression forever, and wouldn't _that_ be unfortunate? Merely a privilege of my craft - having a spot of fun with the customers! Or their wise and sober guides, of course." Mr. Ollivander hummed happily as he gave Tom a fourth wand. "Here's a lovely one for you - rowan, ten-and-a-half inches, dragon heartstring - give it a wave!" 

Once again, nothing happened; but when Tom glanced at the corner he saw Professor Dumbledore laughing to himself, one hand over his eyes. 

"And now you're simply playing to the gallery. Enough, Philokrates! Spare me, and do get on with it." 

Tom silently echoed the sentiment. The words of the two men had meant nothing to him, but it sounded like they were sharing a joke at his expense - and he already felt silly, standing around waving sticks in the air. 

"Oh well, if you're determined to spoil my sport... to business in earnest, then!" Mr. Ollivander was rolling up his lace-trimmed sleeves. "And should you wish to make yourself useful, those two little beauties I finished last night are right there on that table." He shook another half-dozen wands out of their boxes and turned back to Tom. "Don't you fret, good Mr. Riddle, we'll have you chosen in a jiffy!" 

Half an hour and what felt like hundreds of wands later, Tom had decided Mr. Ollivander was a horrible liar, as well as being maddeningly superior and completely barmy. Either that, or he himself must be the stupidest wizard in the world... or maybe it was a big mistake, and he wasn't a wizard after all? Whatever was supposed to happen when he waved a wand - it wasn't happening. His arm was sore from trying, but he couldn't make _any_ of the wands work! They remained sticks. Tom felt tired, hot, and very cross. 

"Willow and dragon heartstring! Eight inches, charmingly flexible." The relentlessly cheerful Mr. Ollivander whistled a bright little tune as he watched Tom fail with yet another wand. 

Tom felt like stamping his foot and shouting, but didn't dare - not in front of Professor Dumbledore, who might refuse to buy him a wand at all, or even send him straight back to the orphanage. No, he couldn't be rude now. He simply had to try harder... But it was so frustrating when Mr. Ollivander kept taking back each wand after only one wave! He couldn't hold on to them, either; they slipped from his grasp as if eager to get away from him. Tom had the sense of _something_ hovering on the very brink of happening... if only he could hold a wand for a few minutes, get used to it, practise a bit. Then he could make any wand work, he felt almost sure of it. If only to spite the wand-maker, he still refused to believe all that rubbish about the wand choosing him. 

Mr. Ollivander paused to make another round of his shelves, gathering more wands. Tom sighed to himself. He'd be standing here _forever_. 

"Elm, I think, and teak, and cypress, oh yes..." 

"Why not try a different core? Or a more... neutral wood?" said Professor Dumbledore from the shadows. "What about oak, say?" 

"Know-it-all. Oak, indeed!" Mr. Ollivander continued to rummage around the shelves, only turning his head to wink at Tom. "Thinks he knows everything, that one. Always has! Of course, if he did know, then _he'd_ be the one making the wands, and _I'd_ be teaching you whipper-snappers how to turn chickens into chamberpots - or whatever it is you do these days, Albus..." 

"Other than induce innocent birds to be plucked for your experiments? Oh, nothing of importance." Professor Dumbledore stood by a work-table now, examining the two new wands. "Very well, forget I mentioned the oak. Do carry on!" 

"Thank you, I shall! But first - see what I've done with the holly, there?" Mr. Ollivander stopped to point something out on the wand Professor Dumbledore was holding. 

Tom took a step towards the table, wondering what might be so interesting. 

"Couldn't ever use that technique before, not without knowing _exactly_ which part of the phoenix's tail yielded the feather, and under which phase of the moon! Oh, but it was marvelous to work with such an amiable bird - my thanks to you both!" 

The other new wand still lay on the table. It was larger than the first, and beautiful, polished so that it shone even in the gloom of the wand-shop. 

Tom thought fast. If his luck held, they'd both smile indulgently and consider him keen and eager to learn, rather than rude. And if he could only hold the wand for more than a second, and really _think_ about what he was doing... 

Anything was better than standing around feeling like a fool, letting somebody else decide which wand to give him! He wasn't waiting to be _chosen_ by a piece of wood. He'd take the wand he wanted, and be damned to them all. 

That burst of temper decided him. Slowly, silently, Tom stretched out his hand - and closed it around the big new wand, gripping hard. 

"Tom - " Professor Dumbledore turned quickly, yet too late. 

It nestled into his palm as if made for him alone. It didn't try to slip away. And then all his clever ideas about thinking and practising became irrelevant, in the very instant he raised the wand and brought it down. 

He was utterly unprepared for the jolt of pure power that raced up his arm - first seeking and questioning, then recognizing and _claiming_ - his hand and his heart, all the blood in his veins, the whole of his mind lay open to it, and there were no words, there could be no words for this, only the one clear thought: _Mine_. Nothing else mattered. 

The next moment he might have screamed aloud, for the wand _caught fire_ - no, no, he couldn't lose it like this! - and his hand must be badly burned, surely, for it was covered in flames... yet there was no pain. 

Tom fought back his panic. He heard voices beside him, but ignored them, totally absorbed in his blazing wand. 

It wasn't ordinary fire. It didn't hurt. It was _cold_. And it burned black, with a flickering corona of scarlet. 

It was good. He liked it! He told it as much, speaking silently. 

"_Tom!_" 

The dark flame was already dying away. He watched it until the very last flicker; only then did he raise his eyes to exchange a long look with Professor Dumbledore. Tom didn't even try to stop grinning. The older wizard looked pale, and seemed to be searching for words. 

A soft, slow clapping made both of them turn their heads to Mr. Ollivander. 

"Well, well, well!" said the wand-maker, still applauding. "How about that, Albus? Looks like there might be a little bit of _yew_ in him after all." 

Professor Dumbledore groaned. 

"Albus! That was a true choice. A true flame." 

"But whatever possessed you to... Phoenix feather and yew? What kind of combination is that?" 

"A very powerful one, in the right hands," said Mr. Ollivander smoothly. "And you know I pride myself on being innovative! Although that doesn't mean I intend to make a policy of letting every little imp grab any wand he pleases," he added, swinging around. "You bold young creature!" He might have been addressing Tom or the wand, or both. 

Tom didn't care if they scolded him now. He had his wand, and nobody would ever take it away. 

As it happened, Professor Dumbledore appeared lost in his own thoughts, and Mr. Ollivander preferred making speeches to scolding. 

"That's settled, then - or will be, as soon as my dear friend here regains his senses and pays me eight Galleons. Indeed, young Master Ma... ahh, Mr. Riddle - I am proud to confirm that you have been chosen by a fine wand of yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches, with a phoenix feather core. The choice honors you. Be worthy of it!" He shook Tom's hand solemnly, then winked at him again. 

By the time they left the shop, a few minutes later, Professor Dumbledore's benevolent smile had returned; he congratulated Tom warmly, admiring the new wand. 

Tom himself couldn't take his eyes off it. And most of all, he wanted to _use_ it. 

First he tried holding the wand like a gun, then like a cricket bat; and then he held it like a sword, and that felt better, so he skipped a few steps along the street, fencing with his shadow. 

Professor Dumbledore paused and turned, waiting for him to catch up. 

Quite suddenly, Tom realized he was still holding the wand all wrong. When you faced another person, you had to hold it like _this_, of course. His hand knew what to do. Easily, without thinking, he raised the wand a little higher and tilted it, flexing his wrist. Yes - that felt right. 

"Ah! All set to duel me already, are you?" 

Duel...? Professor Dumbledore's chuckle made Tom feel silly again. He lowered the wand and hastened to cover his confusion with a question, taking care to sound very respectful. 

"Can I really do magic now, sir? How does it - Are there special words to say?" 

Although the orphanage boys of his own age, and all the younger ones, acknowledged him as their leader, there were still a few older boys who did not. But if he could wave this wand and make them forget their own names, or turn them into rabbits... They'd all be scared of him now! Being a wizard seemed a very fine thing. 

But Professor Dumbledore was shaking his head. "Come now, you _know_ you can work magic! Unless I'm much mistaken, you've been doing so for the past three or four years, and getting up to all kinds of mischief with it, I'll warrant..." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then set off along the street again, waving Tom to his side. 

"Yes, there are words for you to learn, many of them. But to answer the question behind your question: magic goes beyond holding a wand or saying a spell. The power comes from your heart and your mind and your soul, and even more than those, for in a sense it is not what you do, but what you are. It is not something you can wish away. Like it or not, it will be part of you until the end of your days, so the question becomes this: shall you use magic, or shall it use you? And that is what we'll be aiming to teach you in the next seven years - how to control and channel your power, how to make it serve your will." 

Tom thought that made sense, at least. The problem with "it" had always been the way it came and went, sometimes working very well, other times not at all. He wanted to make it work all the time. 

Professor Dumbledore turned to exchange greetings with two young men who called his name from the doorway of a shop that seemed to sell nothing but brooms. Then he glanced at Tom and drew his wand. 

"Longing to get started, hmm? Tell yourself you need light, and say this: _Lumos._" 

Tom didn't hesitate. "_Lumos!_" 

"Oh, what a sweet little boy!" A passing witch in green robes nodded at him, beaming. "First spell, dearie? Very good, very good indeed!" 

He felt his face turn red, and hurried on to get away from her. When he looked up at Professor Dumbledore, he thought he could see another smile lurking beneath the auburn moustache. 

"And the counter-spell is _Nox_..." 

Tom repeated the word and watched the light fade away. Was that all? He liked using his new wand - but that spell had been so babyish, really, and he did wish people in the magical world would stop laughing at him. 

"Tell me, Tom," said Professor Dumbledore lightly, "have you given any thought to what you might do when you grow up?" 

"Yes, sir," he answered, still looking at the wand. "Mrs. Preston and Mr. Lane - he's the teacher - and the vicar, they say I'm clever... They say if I work hard I might go to university, and be a doctor, maybe, or a lawyer..." 

"Do they, now?" 

"But I'd rather run away to sea and be a pirate!" 

As soon as the words were out, Tom wondered why he had spoken of his private thoughts to a stranger. He _never_ did that; yet something about Professor Dumbledore did seem to invite confidences. 

"I see! And you like books, do you?" 

"Yes, sir," said Tom cautiously, determined not to say too much this time. Of course he liked books; they gave him answers. There wasn't a book in the town library that he couldn't understand, if he put his mind to it. 

"Well, speaking of books - here we are!" 

They had stopped outside a big bookshop, which proved to be even bigger on the inside: shelves stretched floor to ceiling as far as Tom could see, and in that one dazzled moment he glimpsed the size of his new world, and the possibilities. 

Professor Dumbledore appeared to know the book-seller quite well; the two of them were soon deep in conversation, with book after book flying into their hands or dancing in the air around them. 

Tom was free to browse the shelves. 

New words leapt out at him from all sides: _Occlumency_, _Quidditch_, _Apparition_... He recognized one - yes, _Transfiguration_, Professor Dumbledore had mentioned that! - but a quick look inside the book only left him wondering what multilateral conversions might be. He kept walking, craning his neck in an effort to see everything. _Herbology_, _Arithmancy_, _Dark Arts_... 

_History_. That simple word caught his eye because the book wasn't on a shelf, but displayed on a small table. He picked it up; it was a large book, pleasantly heavy in his hands, with the title embossed in gold letters: _Hogwarts, a History_. And below the title he saw a picture. 

Only a sketch, an outline in black and white - a castle overlooking a lake - but Tom found he couldn't look away from it. He had the strangest feeling that he _knew_ this place, that he'd seen it many times before; in dreams, perhaps, for there certainly weren't any magic castles anywhere near an orphanage in Wiltshire. 

"Yes, that's Hogwarts." 

The quiet voice behind him spoke just as Tom was trying to work out if the trees in the picture were really swaying, or if he was only imagining it. 

"Time to move on - here are the books you'll need for your first year, and we still have a number of shops to visit." 

Tom looked at the pile of books in Professor Dumbledore's arms, wondering how far the generosity of those ancient Founders would stretch. 

"May I have this one too, sir?" He had to try. He wanted that picture. 

"It's yours." Professor Dumbledore's pale blue eyes revealed nothing as he took the book from Tom's hand and added it to the pile. "Yet I would not have you look to the past too much, Tom Marvolo... Riddle. If I may presume to advise you once more: you have your whole life ahead of you, and it is yours alone - so look to the future, and live it. Don't let yourself become ensnared in history." 

Tom thought this was another good moment to nod politely. He felt bewildered. 

Suddenly the books rose into the air; a wave of Professor Dumbledore's wand sent them bobbing towards the front counter. 

"Peppermint humbug?" He was smiling again, holding out another small tin. 

Tom pocketed the humbug and followed his odd guide out of the shop, thinking hard. 

He was usually so good with grown-ups - good at keeping them happy, making them like him. It was simply a matter of understanding what they wanted to see in him, and showing it to them. Even the dullest orphan knew that much. 

Some wanted children to be seen and not heard; with those, you had to act very quiet and obedient. Some wanted children to amuse them; with those, you had to smile a lot and say the kind of things they called "pert." Some simply liked the sound of their own voices, and would let you get away with murder as long as you gazed into their eyes and pretended to listen when they talked. 

Now, as Tom followed along from shop to shop - buying quills, robes, a cauldron, a telescope, and more - he tried to figure out what Professor Dumbledore wanted. It seemed a puzzle. He just wasn't like any other grown-up Tom had ever met. 

Maybe it was the magic. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

"There! That's everything, now, except for your animal. Oh yes, many of the students keep some sort of creature. Hmm... we'll have to cross the street to the Emporium for an owl, but let's look in here first, shall we?" 

A sign on a shopfront read _The Magical Menagerie_. 

"Hares and rats are out of style these days, I hear, but there's an excellent selection of cats and toads, so you can pick out whichever animal you like." 

"Won't you pick one for me, sir? I'm sure you know best!" Tom used his special meek voice for that. Professor Dumbledore clearly enjoyed giving advice; asking for it was sure to please him, and besides - Tom really didn't care about animals. Pets had never seemed useful to him. 

Professor Dumbledore's hand paused on the door-latch. 

"You don't have to try so hard, Tom." His tone was almost affectionately reproachful; not at all what Tom had expected. "You prefer to make your own choices, I know - and that's as it should be, so come along. Rest assured I shan't think any less of you for deciding on a toad instead of a cat!" 

Tom followed him into the shop, kicking at the doorstep as he crossed it. He'd been wrong again. 

"_No_, Mama! I want a _kitten!_ A fluffy Kneazle kitten!" 

The shrill voice rising above the din of animal noises came from a pudgy girl of his own age who wore frilly pink robes and a determined pout. The couple beside her had matching crimson robes and hats; the woman petted her daughter's dark ringlets, beaming fondly. 

"Of course, darling, of _course_, the very sweetest fluffy Kneazle in the world, and when you're in school you can - Oh! Goodness me! If it isn't Albus Dumbledore himself - Rufus, _look_ - " 

The two of them swept forward to block Professor Dumbledore's path and wring his hand. He greeted them with an aloof, impeccable courtesy which seemed perfectly natural, yet strikingly different from his easy manner in Mr. Ollivander's wand-shop. 

"And my husband's just been promoted at the Ministry, Professor - he's head of the Improper Use of Magic Office now, we're simply _thrilled_ - and our little girl's starting at Hogwarts this year - " 

The girl in pink clutched at her father's arm, still whining about kittens. Since nobody was paying attention to Tom, he turned away to look at the animals. 

"Dear Professor Dumbledore, we _know_ you'll look after our darling little Dodo..." 

An impatient-looking wizard brushed past, muttering to himself. "_Fluffy_ Kneazles, indeed - of all the... Do they expect me to Transfigure 'em?" 

Tom wandered along one wall of the shop, watching rats chase each other's tails and toads squat placidly in their cages. The cats studied him as he passed, with unblinking, unfriendly eyes. No, he wouldn't choose a cat. Maybe cats were only for girls. 

One cage held several round furry animals. He stopped for a closer look; the creatures, whatever they were, didn't move. 

"Silly things!" 

Though her parents were still with Professor Dumbledore, the girl had moved away to stand beside Tom, peering into the cage. 

"What are they called?" 

"Don't you know? How funny!" She poked a fat finger through the bars and prodded one of the strange creatures, making it squeak and roll away. "Puffskeins, of course! I have three at home. They're very boring, but it's the done thing to keep them. Are you starting at Hogwarts too?" 

"Yes." There was magic in saying that. 

"Are you Somebody?" 

"What?" Tom wasn't used to girls, and he thought this one was ugly, despite her elaborate robes; but she had an obvious advantage over him now. 

"I mean, are you Somebody Important? My Papa always says it's no use talking to Nobodies, and I agree. So what's your father do?" 

Tom hesitated. Answering "I don't know" would be so feeble; and suddenly he couldn't bear to be outdone by this girl with her pink frills and Puffskeins and rich, doting, _magical_ parents. 

He straightened his back and gave her a superior look. "I'm not allowed to say." Though he felt as babyish as any of the younger orphans who made up stories about their fathers being dukes or princes, it seemed to work - the girl looked rather impressed. Perhaps the wizarding world liked secrets. 

"Think you'll get into Slytherin, then?" 

"Oh, maybe..." He kept his tone indifferent; the word was familiar, and though he didn't know what the girl meant by that, it was clear she cared about it - so if he sounded like he didn't care, the advantage would be his. Tom wanted to laugh. He could play this game as well as she could. "Why, don't you think you will?" 

"'Course I will!" She fiddled with one of her glossy pink hair-ribbons. "That's the house for the People Who Matter, isn't it? And they're the people you have to know if you want to Get On and Better Yourself. My Papa says so." 

It was a house, then, as well as one of those Founders. He'd heard a little about houses; rich schools had them. But how did people "get into" Slytherin? 

"Dodo darling! Come over here and show Professor Dumbledore how well you can recite the uses of dragon's blood!" 

With some relief, Tom watched the girl scamper back to her mother's side. 

He headed in the opposite direction, stopping at the other end of the shop before a cage on top of the counter. A sleek black cat yawned at him in a display of white teeth. 

It was then that he heard it: people talking very quietly, somewhere close by, in a kind of hissing whisper that he could almost make out, but not quite. And he couldn't see the speakers at all. The impatient shop-keeper was talking to some other customers about rats. 

This felt like more magic. Curious, Tom listened hard. The whispers were coming from somewhere close to the floor - a cellar? - no, they were behind _there_ - Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Tom ducked down and crawled under the counter. 

All he saw was a large wooden box, with one hole in its side covered by a metal grille. But the voices were clearer now. 

"Grooming, that's the thing! We need to groom ourselves!" 

"And what good would that do, pray tell?" 

"Why, to show how handsome we are! What a prize for a strong, wise master - " 

"Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful if..." 

"Fools! We're hidden away in the dark - what does it matter what we look like?" 

A wireless, he thought; but... what if there were little magical people in the box? It couldn't hurt to look. He leaned forward and peeked through the grille. 

There was a movement in the darkness. A _slither_. And the voices stopped. 

Quickly, Tom drew his wand and said the word that made light, then looked again - to find the most wonderful thing he had ever seen in his life. 

It was a small snake - a snake with three heads! - and it was striped like a tiger, orange and black, and its six eyes were bright with intelligence and fixed on his face. 

"A boy..." hissed the head on Tom's left. 

"Well, what of it?" replied the head on the right. 

The middle head simply stared at him, wide-eyed. 

Tom finally found his voice. "Are you really _talking_?" 

All three froze. 

Then, very softly, the middle head said: "_Master_. Child of Salazar." 

"Master!" cried the left head. "Come to buy us! Oh, we shall serve you - " 

"Idiots!" the right head broke in. "Is this any way to greet our Master? Bow to him!" 

And they did bow, in unison, all three heads of the graceful little snake, gazing up at him with boundless trust. 

Tom felt something change inside him - like a piece of a puzzle sliding into place. 

"Free us, Master! Take us with you!" the left head begged. 

"I will," he said, grinning. If he could pick any animal he wanted - then he'd take the talking snake! "My name's Tom, and I'm going to school at Hogwarts. Do you want to come with me?" 

The three heads hissed their agreement. The look in their eyes now was pure worship. 

He had never wanted anything as much as he wanted this snake. 

"All right," he told the three. "You're mine! I'll ask Professor - " 

And then a hand seized Tom by the collar of his robes, dragging him to his feet. 

"That there's a very valuable snake, boy!" The shop-keeper released him, glowering. "You just stay away from it - unless your father has plenty of Galleons!" 

"But I was only talking - I want to - " 

"A moment, Tom." Professor Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Stalk?" 

"Nothing, sir! Didn't know the boy was with _you_, sir..." The shop-keeper smiled broadly, nervously. "No problem, none at all - " 

Professor Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at him, then bent to look under the counter. 

"Ah. I'll pretend I didn't see that today, Mr. Stalk. All the same, I should advise you to remove it from your premises. _Forthwith_." 

"Indeed I will sir, indeed - " 

"Now, I believe you have some customers waiting for a Kneazle - and we'll be on our way to the Emporium, to look at owls. Good day to you." 

"But Professor - " said Tom, hanging back. He could still hear the three voices calling to him. 

"_Owls_, Tom. Now." 

There was nothing he could do as a strong hand propelled him out the door. He couldn't even say goodbye to his snake. 

They stopped some distance along the street from the animal shop, and Tom was finally free to speak, to explain - but even before he finished, he knew it would be no good. He could read that in Professor Dumbledore's frown. 

"You said - you said I could choose my own animal..." 

Professor Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment. "I didn't mean a _Runespoor!_ Listen to me, Tom - the snake in that box is special - " 

"I know! It can talk!" 

"No, that's not what I meant. Listen. You heard it speak because the language of snakes - Parseltongue, we call it - is part of your legacy from your mother and her line. You can talk to any snake, not only that one." 

But he still wanted that one! Only that one. How could he make Professor Dumbledore understand? 

"The reason I called the snake special is - " 

"It's really expensive, isn't it? Much more than a cat?" 

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "That's true, but - " 

"I'll work for it, sir! Please, I'll pay you back, even if it takes years and years, I'll do anything, _please_..." He heard himself begging outright, with no attempt at guile, and hated that; but the snake had called him Master, and he had named it his. 

"No, Tom." The refusal was gentle, but quite firm. "I'm afraid this kind of snake has a certain reputation which... Well, people associate it with a certain form of magic. You'll have to trust me in this: it would _not_ be good for you to arrive at Hogwarts with a Runespoor. Not good for you or the young serpent itself." 

Tom looked up, searching that kindly, implacable face for any chance at all. 

Professor Dumbledore sighed. "I can only say I'm sorry for it, and ask you to believe I'm doing my best to keep you safe and free to make your choices. Trust me, please." 

Trust. _Take us with you, Master_. 

Tom broke. His wand was still in his hand, and without stopping to think he was turning and running, running back to the shop, not knowing what he'd do, only determined to go back - yet before he'd gone five paces he heard the screaming begin. He stopped. 

The girl in pink ran out, shrieking and sobbing, and her family, and the shop-keeper - and the door stayed open, and there it was: the little snake, _his_ snake, slithering out the door and along the street to meet him, as fast as it could go, orange and black scales gleaming, with passers-by leaping aside in alarm, and Professor Dumbledore - 

"Master!" 

"_Stupefy!_" 

The snake slumped to the ground and lay quite still. 

Tom hurt so much he could barely breathe. 

"You killed it, you _killed_ it, you - " 

"No, Tom, no! It's only stunned, I assure you. No harm done!" 

The pain inside him didn't go away as he watched Professor Dumbledore pick up the snake and hand it over to the shop-keeper, who carried it back into his shop and shut the door. The snake was gone - and he didn't know for sure it wasn't dead. He didn't know what to believe. He only knew that he was on the brink of shaming himself utterly by snivelling right here in the street, like a girl, like a baby; and that was wrong, for big boys of eleven didn't cry. _He_ didn't cry. 

Tom thought about all he'd learned that day - and all he still had to learn. He thought of magic, and his mother, and his new name, and going away to school in that castle by the lake. He thought of the orphanage. 

He _needed_ to make people like him, for he was walking into a different world with no other shield - no family, no money, no power. Not yet. 

He felt very much alone. His fingers ached, clenched around the fine new wand. 

"No, thank you, sir," he said, when asked if he'd like an owl - or a cat, or a toad. His face a mask of polite obedience, his eyes perfectly dry, he explained that he'd much rather not have an animal at all, if that was all right. 

He never saw the snake again. 

It took him some time to learn enough to make his own way back to Diagon Alley, and of course the Runespoor was long gone. Neither would the shop-keeper answer his questions. Much later, in the fullness of his power, he made it his business to find a certain Mr. Stalk and squeeze his mind like a ripe fruit - he could do that by then, easily - yet even this jumble of petty memories yielded nothing clear about the snake's fate. He killed the greedy fool slowly; it brought him no pleasure. 

He would come to have many grievances against Albus Dumbledore, greater than the loss of one small snake; but that was the first, and not forgotten. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Tom returned to the orphanage in time for tea, as promised; another instant of magic brought him back to a familiar alley, with Professor Dumbledore by his side, once again wearing an ordinary suit. 

"Now, I've arranged with Mrs. Preston to have you taken to King's Cross, and we'll have someone meet you there and see you safely on the train. Meanwhile, you may read your books, of course - you'll find I've charmed them to look like Muggle school-books to everyone else - but you are not to attempt any spells, and you absolutely must not speak of magic to anyone. This is very important, Tom. Do you promise?" 

He almost didn't. He almost asked _why_ - if being a wizard was so wonderful - he couldn't boast of it to those less fortunate than himself. He'd been looking forward to that. 

"Yes, sir, I promise." It wasn't exactly a lie; he could almost picture the accident, the explanation - he'd only be holding the wand, not _meaning_ to use it, and a word would sort of slip out - not his fault - 

"Not your fault, of course..." 

The words echoed his thoughts so closely that he jumped. 

"Still, the temptation may prove too much for you, so I think we'll make sure of it, just this once." 

Before Tom could blink, his wand flew into Professor Dumbledore's palm, where it shrank to the size of a match-stick - and something very like a match-box grew around it. 

"You'll be able to open that on the train, come September the first - not before," said Professor Dumbledore, smiling as he handed it back. Then he escorted Tom to the orphanage door, said his farewells, and walked away. 

Tom watched him go back to that other world, and a nameless, wordless frustration churned within him until he thought he might burst from it. This was cruel - to welcome him, to show him what he was and could become - then to snatch it away after only a taste, only a glimpse. If he was a wizard, he belonged _there_. Why did they leave him _here_? 

He imagined Professor Dumbledore drinking with Mr. Ollivander that very night; talking about Tom, perhaps, and laughing inexplicably as the two of them had done in the shop - that shop where he'd got his wand, which he now couldn't even see or use - and that silly girl probably had a new wand too, and her Mama and Papa would help her learn to use it - while Tom was stuck here with no one to talk to but... Muggles. 

The orphanage had always been grey and dull, and he'd always longed to leave it behind; now he knew where he was going, and the familiar walls seemed greyer and duller still. 

Tom didn't want any dinner that night, but he had to eat it, of course. Only then could he retreat to his favorite hiding-place, pull out _Hogwarts, a History_, and start reading it in great hungry gulps. 

He was going to be Somebody. 

[end of Chapter One] 

**Notes:**

_Starwater_, _Langley Bottom_, and _Preston_ are nicked from the Starbridge novels by Susan Howatch. Hey, I'm not even Anglican - I just fangirl these madly for the first-person POV and characterization. 

_Philokrates_ as Ollivander's first name is nicked by permission from _Catalyst_, a Dumbledore/Ollivander ficlet by Alchemine which can be found at hp.pfen.net. However, my Ollivander is not an ancient vampire, alas. Neither is there anything slashy going on between him and Albus, though these two have been friends for years and are both heading into gloriously eccentric old age. 

P.S. Yes, ickle Dodo _is_ Dolores Umbridge. *grin* She's going straight into Slytherin, where she'll have a perfectly horrible time. 


End file.
